


Beg the Ceiling for Forgiveness

by monsterq



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post Hell, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterq/pseuds/monsterq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The alcohol stings his throat, and it tastes, blessedly, like nothing at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beg the Ceiling for Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> Written 12/11/12. More detailed warnings at end notes.

He takes in a thick, strangled breath and it tastes like soot, like burning flesh, like his own insides and whisper-thin screams and Alastair’s long fingers.  
He’s not trembling, he’s not. He’s a Winchester, and he can take worse, but there’s something aching, hollow and raw that’s shivering deep inside him. But he can live through this, or die trying, and that’s—that’s not an option. Not anymore.  
The alcohol stings his throat, and it tastes, blessedly, like nothing at all.  
He’s well on his way to plastered when the door of the motel room swings open. Sam comes in, staring at some papers in his hands and already talking— “So I was looking at the coroner’s report again and we missed something the first time, Dean, we—” He looks up, and his gaze lands on Dean, slumped on one of those ubiquitous squashy armchairs, his glazed face, the bottle clasped loosely in one fist and dangling over the side.  
Sam’s eyes narrow. “Are you drunk?”  
“Four stars for you, Sammy,” Dean mumbles.  
“Dude, it’s…” Sam checks his watch, “three in the afternoon. And weren’t you just telling me about a dwarf with a hammer in your skull and how you were never going to drink again?”  
Dean just shrugs. He feels like shit, but marginally less like shit than he did when he started; plus, he’s too drunk to defend himself.  
“You…” Sam flails his arms helplessly, and Dean thinks vaguely that he looks like a very confused windmill. Then Sam stares to the ceiling and back, and the righteous accusation crumples, to be replaced by Dean’s second least favorite expression: concerned sympathy. “Hey, Dean, look—I know it’s been rough for you, after you got out of Hell, but this isn’t…”  
“No,” says Dean, and holds up a finger. He can’t quite focus on it, or Sam for that matter, and maybe he’d be concerned about that if he had more than two sober brain cells to rub together. “Not gonna do that, Sammy. This isn’t Oprah. I’m not gonna cry on your shoulder.”  
Sam sighs, long-suffering. “I’m not—you’re—Jesus, Dean.” He looks around, puts down the papers on the nightstand between the beds. “Come on, scoot over.” Then he’s pushing at Dean’s shoulder, and Dean moves before he understands what’s happening, and then Sam is—Sam’s squeezing into the big soft chair, next to him, the contact of his body a long line of warmth from shoulder to thigh. Dean sputters in indignation for a moment before giving up. Sam doesn’t look like he intends to move, and Dean’s not going anywhere.  
“If you puke on me,” Sam warns, “you can sleep in the car.”  
“Hey,” says Dean, only slurring a little. “If I puke on you, it’s your own fault. And at least my baby would love me better’n you do.”  
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam’s fingers, threading and petting through his hair. Dean thinks he should protest, is all ready to, but instead he finds his head sinking down to rest against Sam’s broad shoulder. It’s comfortable there, like a bird’s nest for a fledgling. Not that he’s ever been in a nest. And he’s not a baby bird, either. Christ. Maybe he should just quit while he’s ahead.  
He loses time. When he opens his eyes again, the room is darker, the sun barely glowing through the shaded window, but Sam’s hand is still stroking softly, rhythmically through his hair. It feels better than he’d care to admit.  
Dean doesn’t move, and he lets his eyes sink shut again before Sam notices. He doesn’t want Sam to stop touching him, for this to be awkward, for Sam to get up and move away and stand there with his long legs and wide shoulders too far away to reach. That’s the truth of it—he doesn’t want this moment to end.  
He keeps his eyes closed. He’s too tired to think of an excuse.

**Author's Note:**

> Dean's PTSD from his experiences in hell. References to Alastair and torture. Drunkenness. Dean relying on alcohol as a coping mechanism.


End file.
